


You've Caught My Eye (Now Could You Please Hold My Hand?)

by smallprotector



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Enjolras just appriciates Grantaire's revolutionary fervour, M/M, Oh shit he's hot, Pining, Realisation of feelings, developing feelings, that's what he tells himself, thirst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-24
Updated: 2017-03-24
Packaged: 2018-10-10 04:51:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10429503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smallprotector/pseuds/smallprotector
Summary: Five times Grantaire distracted Enjolras, and one time Enjolras returned the favour.





	

Enjolras could not care less about the specifics of Marius’ love life. He liked the man well enough, but there was no reason to interrupt a meeting with tales of ghosts and handkerchiefs and initials. Joly and Grantaire seemed to disagree though, encouraging Marius far more than necessary. 

Joly, he could forgive, since it was in his nature to be joyful (something Enjolras appreciated, both because it kept up morale and because seeing his little jokes and playful banter make the others smile was a pleasure he was loathe to give up) but Grantaire- his barbs were sometimes too pointed, though they often seemed to twist back to hurt the very man who uttered them. And though Enjolras valued all his friends, he could not help but wonder why Marius was even here if all he was doing was distracting others- but since he seemed willing enough to listen to and learn from everyone’s perspective, Enjolras tried to be more welcoming. Courfeyrac’s disapproval when he didn’t act kindly enough was more than sufficient motivation.

And just as Enjolras turned to have a stern word with the trio, Grantaire made the most distracting noise. He was sure there was no reason to start moaning like that- and so prettily too. Who could have guessed two simple syllables could sound so musical, so enchanting. And Enjolras could see how his lips had framed the sounds- not that he was staring at Grantaire’s lips! They just happened to be there, he supposed. He’d just never noticed them quite like this before, never noticed the way they framed the sounds so prettily.

Enjolras shook himself, deciding to leave the three of them- and Bossuet, who’d just joined with cups of wine, already half-spilled on the floor by the bar- to their merry-making. It was harmless enough.

 

“…I am capable of that. My boots are capable of that.”

After the short speech Grantaire had just given, Enjolras supposed there was no reason not to allow him to go recruit the painters to their cause. If he only argued with a fraction of the fire, the passion he had just shown he would be successful. And if not, well. Enjolras knew not everyone was fit for convincing groups of people- Bahorel was just as likely to start a fight anywhere he went as to convince anyone of their cause. And Combeferre was inclined to stutter slightly amongst unfamiliar people, making him dislike doing it. And so he knew not to send them off to important missions unless the need was dire. This could be a test for Grantaire. And if he failed- well painters were a notoriously flighty lot, they would have been just as likely not to join in the end even if all the Amis proselytised at them.

“Very well. I consent to try you.”

As he said the words, Grantaire seemed to light up, standing straighter and gathering up his hat from the table. He dithered a while about something before striding off without another word. 

Enjolras shrugged, going back to discussing plans with Combeferre, who had been watching the exchange with some interest, his dark eyes dancing with mirth at the last parts of their exchange. Enjolras found himself resenting the dark realities they had to discuss which changed the set of his friend’s face to something grim and determined. After the revolution, he reminded himself, Combeferre would never have to look like that again. He- and all the others- could smile without the spectre of death at their backs. And with that resolution firm in his mind, he returned to planning with renewed vigour, spurred on by the hope for a better future. 

After an indeterminate amount of time, Combeferre nudged Enjolras.

“Look who’s returned- and how colourfully.”

Grantaire was indeed striding into the Musain, clad in a red waistcoat that set off his brown curls in a very fetching way. It lent his usually rather pallid skin a glow that- well anyway, Enjolras appreciated the revolutionary sentiments the colour displayed, of course. 

But Grantaire was walking still closer to them, until he was right next to Enjolras, his breath hot on Enjolras’ neck as he leaned in to whisper in his ear.

“Red.”

And with that, he straightened up, and strode towards the door, running his hand down the front of his waistcoat one last time to adjust the fit as he left the cafe. 

Enjolras stayed silent for a few seconds, blinking more than usual until he could focus again. But as he turned to Combeferre, he had dissolved into gales of silent laughter, his brown cheeks glowing red with glee. 

 

Enjolras was talking to Courfeyrac when Grantaire bent to polish his boots. 

Now this should not have been anything to remark upon, but somehow Grantaire had situated himself so that his boot was on a chair while he was bent over to fuss at it, and he was turned away from Enjolras in such a way that the lines of his body were quite evident to him. 

Enjolras swallowed and tried to think of the maps of France he had memorised as a young boy. Perhaps if he just focused on the supply chain for wheat in the south of France he wouldn’t be tempted to look upon Grantaire’s shapely- 

“Enjolras? Do you agree we should try to involve more students from the Polytechnic School?”

“Yes! Thank you Courfeyrac, I was merely,” said Enjolras, gesturing vaguely in a manner he hoped indicted important things when no fitting excuse sprung to his mind immediately. “Calculating! Gunpowder and such. Yes. Now excuse me, I have to go speak with Feuilly about- that.”

As Enjolras walked away, he heard Courfeyrac lean in to ask Combeferre what was the matter with him, but all Enjolras heard of the answer was a soft chuckle. 

 

Enjolras knew that Grantaire was proficient with a singlestick, but he had not expected a demonstration of that fact while going through Paris for his daily planning and meetings. But there Grantaire was, in front of the Corinthe, practicing with Bahorel for some reason Enjolras could not fathom. 

They were both concentrating, fast on their feet, an undercurrent of viciousness in their movements. There was something about the raw strength Grantaire displayed that Enjolras found fascinating. Once again, he found it hard to tear his eyes away from him as he handled his singlestick with such care. 

Enjolras found himself admiring the focus he exhibited, how single minded he seemed to be. If only Grantaire would show even a fraction of that devotion for their cause- but no. He knew that Grantaire must have his own reasons for his actions, that though Enjolras might not understand what they were, he had to respect his choices. And so he was content to watch him as Bahorel sparred with him, not alerting the two of them to his presence.

As their mock fight came to an end, both of them breathing heavily and flushed a healthy red, Enjolras hurried away to go about his day. There was no need for him to alert them to his presence, especially since he could not properly explain why he had decided to stay and watch them for so long.

 

This was worse than anything Enjolras had ever experienced. Grantaire was laughing, his head thrown back in pure delight, his eyes pressed together with small tears of mirth leaking from the edges. Pure joy shone from his face, seeming to light up the space around him. Joly and Bossuet were laughing with him but Enjolras’ eyes were glued on Grantaire. He was certain he couldn’t look away now if the revolution depended on it. 

He had never seen Grantaire this happy. 

But now, all he wanted as to see him like this more often- or with the small contended smile he was wearing now while speaking with Bossuet. He wanted to be the cause for those smiles. 

And with that thought, he realised he had to do something about his feelings. Of course, he’d noticed that his thoughts about Grantaire were no longer the same as towards the other members of the Amis, but till now he’d been able to dismiss that difference as simple carnal desire- which though not illegal, was something he had no interest in indulging. But now! Now he was imagining simple, innocent things and was still filled with want, with yearning. This was something he could no longer simply ignore. He wasn’t sure he could if he even wanted to. 

But what to do? 

He was reluctant to go to Combeferre or Courfeyrac with the question, though they were his main source for advice. Somehow, he felt as though they might not treat it with the seriousness he was feeling. But he knew that the others often talked about romantic endeavours perhaps he could make sure to happen to overhear one of their conversations.

 

Grantaire was simply sitting in the Musain minding his own business (alright he may have been carving a small lion’s head warning patrons not to get the food here but at least he wasn’t disturbing anyone) when Enjolras burst in. Almost instinctively, Grantaire looked up to gaze upon the leader he idolised so much. His hair still shone like a halo to frame that delicate face and angelic brown eyes, but as Grantaire’s eyes trailed down his form he noticed a distinct difference in his clothing. 

Enjolras was wearing- oh mercy on his soul! - doeskin trousers. They were tighter than anything Grantaire had seen his Apollo wear before and Grantaire silently praised the tailor that had elevated a simple piece of clothing into something that could mesmerise so easily- thought Enjolras probably deserved most of the credit for that.

And Enjolras was walking towards him, his was taking on a determined set. Had Grantaire done something wrong lately? He frantically thought through all his newest failures- perhaps Enjolras was still mad about the Barriere du Maine incident. Grantaire had already mumbled apologises for that and Enjolras had sighed, seeming to accept them, though Grantaire had felt as if they were wholly inadequate.

And with that memory fresh in his mind, Grantaire was already nervous before Enjolras even sat down to join him. 

“I was wondering what you would be doing later today?” 

“Well, I had intended to go and find a bar to spend far too much time at, possibly join some friends, steal some apples; this and that. Nothing definite. Whatever strikes my fancy. Of course, if you have an assignment for me could be persuaded to spend my time on that, I suppose. But no promises there. We all know how reliable I am not.”

“That suits my purposes well enough. I was wondering whether you might, perhaps, be interested in going for a stroll with me.”

“A stroll! Are we to be planning for the upcoming revolution? Should I see if I can rustle up a rifle? Are we to meet up with other co-conspirators?”

“Ah, no. I was hoping it would be more- intimate.”

“Intimate? My dearest Apollo, nothing could please me more,” Grantaire said, his voice far more gentle than he had intended. He shook himself before standing, and could not contain his curiosity. 

“But I must ask- what possessed you to acquire these new trousers? Not that I am complaining! Trust me, nothing could be further from the truth.”

Enjolras blushed. That was not the reaction Grantaire had expected. He was certain he’d never seen him do that before.

“Oh you know, Bahorel mentioned something about Staub and well, I was overdue for new clothes. But enough of that- the sun is shining so brightly outside, is it not? I cannot think of anyone better to enjoy it with.”

Grantaire felt himself smile, and ducked his head to hide how much that simple remark had touched him. It felt as though Enjolras was wooing him. And though this was a completely new experience, he resolved savour ever second. 

And so they walked off into the streets of Paris arm in arm, Enjolras adorned with his fashionable trousers and Grantaire with a tender and hopeful expression that had never before graced his features.


End file.
